


In Love with Your Carnage

by Joel7th



Series: Eden [7]
Category: Murphy's Law (UK TV), Wanted (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Fassavoy, M/M, McBender, McFassy, PWP, cherik inspired, porn with a little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2690243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joel7th/pseuds/Joel7th
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“For a moment I thought I would come back to an empty room,” Wesley said, propping himself up on his elbow to look into Caz’s cerulean eyes.</p><p>“Why?” Caz’s surprise was genuine.</p><p>“There’s no fucking reason you can’t go if you fucking want to.”</p><p>The words were almost spitted out in bitterness. Caz’s eyebrows arched up, but he soon resumed his casual half-smile, half-smirk.</p><p>“And there’s only one reason I’ll go nowhere.”</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“I love you,” replied Caz with blatantly straight face that left every space to doubt his sincerity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Love with Your Carnage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eikyuuyuki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eikyuuyuki/gifts).



[ ](https://joel7th.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/74b5b33b-fcca-45a3-ba31-9dfeb6e0d3a8_zps9b9bde4e-copy.png)

  

For fuck’s sake, Wesley was stinking.

A hideously obnoxious mixture of sweats, dirt, cordite and blood was clinging to his body like the second layer of skin. And he wanted nothing more than to have it peeled off.

Every time Wesley came back after a kill, he possessed this odor. Every time Wesley came back after a kill, he loathed it.

The stink was one byproduct of a kill, the other being undesired… arousal. A fight, even an intense one as the time he’d tracked Cross on the train or when he’d demolished the Fraternity, would not use up the abundant amount of adrenaline pumping into his bloodstream. Reverberating in his veins, the leftover went straight south and nestled there. So far, his jeans were being uncomfortably tight.

Wesley had never been burdened with it – this odd phenomenon, not before he had had blood on his hand. The day he’d had his first kill, he had also felt it, strong, persistent and ferocious like an untamed beast wreaking havoc inside him. He had dared not try it on Fox – she would have had a bullet ricocheted in his skull if she’d known all he’d wanted when giving her that heated look was tearing what little clothes she was having and bending her over the park bench. Against Fox with her years of experience and superior skills, Wesley hadn’t had the tiniest bit of chance, not with half his brain focusing on hiding his arousal from her keen eyes. Thus he had run as fast as his enhanced speed could carry, away from her, away from death, until he arrived at a dimly lit bar. He had gulped down an entire bottle of scotch in a flimsy hope that a ridiculous amount of alcohol injection to his bloodstream could calm the raging wild lust.

No such luck!

There, fate had deemed Wesley Gibson’s life wasn’t big enough a shit pool and decided to toss in Caz Miller, who’d had him (his ass actually) ‘deflowered’ – the motherfucker’s word. In Wesley’s lexical source, it had been an insane experience made madder with heavy scotch and blazing libido.

Yet the best fuck he’d had so far.

And, to Wesley’s bliss or dismay, that wasn’t the last. Fate had bound Wesley Gibson and Caz Miller together a few more times; each and every one of them a sweaty, heated and no less sexy mess. Between Caz, Wesley had tried with others, both men and women; however, none had been able to wind and unwind him in the curious way Caz had, which the motherfucker’d dubbed “a demon sent to snare you” – undoubtedly some line from a cheesy drama series (Caz Miller: full-time gangster and part-time couch potato, just for your information). It was as though Wesley’s pleasure satisfaction was a wacky padlock and Caz was the only one with the right key; others just seemed… wrong, unfitted, unfulfilled. This realization had prompted him to make the fastest decision since birth when he’d heard of Caz’s imprisonment: if Caz were to rot in some place, that would be in Wesley’s bed (with Wesley’s cock inside him, preferably), not in some dirty, foul-smelling cell with an equally dirty, foul-smelling cellmate who may or may not fancy Caz’s asshole’s virginity in the same way as Wesley.

Thus the prison had had an unexpected and devastating assault which involved a great deal of dynamites and a bone-chilling number or rats – all to save one assassin’s desperate sex life.

On a  side note,  **NEVER**  ask Wesley where and how he had accumulated so many rats in such a short time!

As he was stepping on the threshold to the safe house Cross had left him, disguised as any other brick houses on this bustling street, Wesley was stabbed with a sudden fear. He had left while Caz had been sleeping – hadn’t thought much about many things else except bringing down his target and grabbing the cheque. Obviously Caz’s departure had never crossed his mind, and now, standing in front of the rusty door with his hand on the rusty handle, he couldn’t help the appalling vision of an empty bed, free of any traces to indicate another person beside himself had been there. He had nothing to bind Caz other than a flimsy promise made in post-coital, exhausted, sore and near-starving state; Wesley saw no reason why Caz wouldn’t leave if he wanted to.

Or worse…

He could open the door to a rigid, motionless body lying in the congealed pool of his own blood, eyes staring at Wesley yet unable to see a thing…

He shook his head and twisted the door handle, the knot of anxiety in his stomach adding excessive force to the simple act.

He might have closed his eyes for some milliseconds the door was swung open. When he opened them, he was hugely relieved to be greeted with the sight of discarded  _pieces_  of clothes scattering from the floor to the double bed, which no doubt reeked of sweats, dry come and a bit of blood. On top of the crumpled, dirty bed sheet was Colin ‘Caz’ Miller, sleeping like he was never aware of Apocalypse. The steady, lively rhythm of his chest falling and rising allowed Wesley to exhale a lengthy sigh…

… and notice his jeans getting tight again. The obscene view of Caz’s long limbs tangled in the bed sheet and his pale, naked back didn’t really help.

But when Wesley was about to leap onto the bed and fuck him thoroughly like tomorrow was the End of day and this was the last thing he wished to do, his eyes caught sight of tell-tale yellowish bruises on Caz’s lower back, around his bony hip, two hand-shapes reminding Wesley of how he had gotten  _a little_  carried away.

Maybe a little was an understatement, judging by the bruises that even the wax could not erase at once. He vaguely remembered Caz’s moans several times during the night; many of them hadn’t been pleasure-induced.

Wesley wasn’t a true sadist and the sharp pang of guilt called a halt to his after-kill horniness. It was still there, fighting for release, yet somehow it was slightly more controllable. The unbearable stink helped a lot, of course.

So, Wesley let out a half-sigh, half-grunt as he stripped himself off his jacket and T-shirt, sticking to his skin with all the mess he had managed to plash on them. After all this had been a messy kill, and a difficult one to boost, if the nasty gash stretching from his right shoulder to mid back was something. He left his jeans on because Wesley, unlike  _someone else_ , wasn’t very into exhibitionism, and strode to the tiny bathroom, where he would probably spend the next hour (or more) jerking himself off under the shower until he was numb, body and soul.

As he passed the bed, Wesley couldn’t resist the urge to touch Caz, who probably never knew he looked adorable in his sleep. So he did, reaching down to brush the back of his hand against Caz’s cheek, his stubble – ginger, definitely ginger – tickling his skin and Wesley smiled. He liked it, liked the way Caz’s everything managed to captivate him, even his wide, teeth-baring grin he seemed proud to show off quite often (the way a shark would smile if it could).

Perhaps Wesley had gotten carried away again – blamed it on the after-kill exhaustion – when hands caught him,  hauling him down to the bed. A weight straddled him at once.

A  _naked_ weight.

The muzzle of Wesley’s gun found the perfect spot between his assailant’s cerulean eyes. Exasperated and perhaps a little embarrassed for being caught off guard, Wesley huffed, “The fuck, Col…”

Hot lips pressed against his and swallowed the rest of his words. When there was no word left to devour, they resorted to snatching his breath away. Wesley tried to protest at first – half-heartedly if he was honest with himself – but his resistance was fast weakened by the alluring sweet suffocation masking him. When they parted, Wesley’s vision was blotched with dark spots.

This thrilling, near-death experience, how long since he last had it?

Belfast, the dimly lit bar, where he had encountered a pair of cerulean eyes, blazing with pure, shameless lust whose object had been him, and him alone.

The lust hadn’t changed as those same eyes were boring into him, despite the gun’s muzzle pressing threateningly between them.

The corner of Caz’s lips curved up. “So much for a pro killer.”

Wesley’s fingers closed around the grip as if he was trying to crush bones with his hand alone. Half of him wanted to wipe that smug look off Caz’s face, making sure he regret having worn it; the other half, well, just wanted to yank his head down for another lip-bruising, breath-snatching session. He made up his mind quickly, flicking the safety back and throwing the gun away, not bothering with where it would land, and pulled Caz’s face to his, all in one swift movement that lived up to his profession as a trained assassin. Their lips and teeth crashed – pain, that was for sure – yet they wasted no time to resume the violent rhythm earlier. The copper taste growing heavily on their lacing tongues did not thwart their ecstasy, but rather heightened it in an instinctual, almost bestial sense.

Neither Caz nor Wesley was particularly civil; in sex, they were even less.

Wesley wasn’t certain about Caz but he knew he wasn’t always so… passionate; his sex life had been boring and stagnant, just as boring and stagnant as the rest of his life. Had he been like this in bed, Cathy probably wouldn’t have cheated on him with Barry – not that he regretted now. It seemed that night in Belfast Caz had unlocked something inside him, a switch whose existence he hadn’t been aware of, and would never be aware of, not without a certain gangster with shark-like grins making out with his ears and pouring sweet, lewd words into them.

A few playful nibbles at his lips before Caz gingerly left him, a thin, silvery strand connecting their mouths to mark their feral encounter seconds ago. Caz broke it and licked it clean off his lips and Wesley’s.

Caz’s ‘ministrations’ only made Wesley feel more uncomfortable in his jeans, which weren’t tight to begin with – on mission he dressed for function, not look and tight jeans were never an option. Now they were skin-tight and hell, every tiny movement could cause Wesley’s body to jerk with the fabric rubbing against his sensitive member. And though he very much wanted to pin Caz down and fucked the brain out of him, the stink caught by his enhanced sense was fighting valiantly to put reason to his lust-hazed mind.

Caz’s next attempt to dive in was halted by a hand. “Very funny, Colin,” Wesley huffed, trying brave for once, “now get your fucking ass off me so I can have a shower.”

A _very_  long shower.

“So you can jerk off in the shower?” asked Caz with a knowing grin, the kind that fiercely yearned for a good, hard punch, plastering all over his sculpted features.

Didn’t Wesley just _love_ to make that sculpture of a face  _slightly_  less pleasant to look at?

So Wesley sort of let it go. The punch he had held back in exchange for a heated lip-mating round came back naturally enough.

“Ouch…” Caz groaned, his head tilted to the sight.

“So I can fucking jerk off in the shower!” Wesley cursed. Maybe he could last through a quick shower, washing himself off that revolting smell before he came back for a proper, thorough fuck. Caz had better be prepared.

He was about to tell Caz to fuck off so he could fuck him later when a hand palming his groin made him choke on his half-formed words.

“Not when you’re smelling so good, Weslie,” he said, and bended down to nibble teasingly at Wesley’s crotch.

_The fuck?_

Wesley stared at him, stupefied.

“… turns me on like no other.”

Catching Wesley’s hand, Caz led him down between his legs. Like Wesley, he was already hard, the head moist and leaking pre-come. And unlike Wesley, he wasn’t constrained by the rough fabric that was getting tighter with every second pass.

Wesley was burning with urgency to rip off his jeans, especially when Caz began rubbing himself against Wesley’s gun-calloused hand.

Fuck the shower and the stink, he wanted Caz. Now!

“Get me off my jeans, asshole!”

 _“Hush, easy now_. _”_  Caz was practically singing as he flattened his body against Wesley’s.  _“_ Good  _things come to those who can…”_

One of the few things of Caz Wesley always had mixed feelings about was his ridiculous habit of singing in the least appropriate time. Callard had to be either deaf or equipped with the patience of a saint for keeping such a man by his side.

_“…wait.”_

He punctuated rather physically, with his mouth sucking the small hollow between Wesley’s clavicles. An odd place to start, one would say, yet the effect was instant and  _audible_ : Wesley let out a startled, undignified yelp at the first contact with the wet texture of Caz’s tongue. Was it normal to be so sensitive at a place so often forgotten and neglected or was he a very particular case?

Caz left his collarbones and travel to his chest. His tongue swirled around the tanned areole before taking the hardened nub in his mouth. He sucked at it with slow pace, savoring the tiny piece of flesh as though he was enjoying a rare ambrosia that once it was all eaten, he would never be able to taste it again. Not in a life time.

“Motherfucker…” was what Wesley could manage through clenched teeth. He didn’t know whether he was being hypersensitive – blamed the adrenaline – or Caz was exceptionally devilish with his tongue.

He shuddered at the thought of their combination.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Caz spared him a brief moment before he lavished the other nipple, this time with enough rawness to knock down Wesley’s determination to not moan audibly. He smiled at his small success.

“You should look at yourself right now, Weslie,” Caz teased. He slid down his body, licking a long, wet trail from his chest to his abdomen. His breath ghosted over Wesley’s skin before he dipped his tongue into his navel. “Perfection!” he exclaimed.

Wesley hissed and yanked Caz’s hair.

“Get the fuck on!” Wesley growled, his voice raucous with lust and impatience. “You fucking want both of us to get blue balls or what?”

“Your increasing usage of vulgarity speaks volume of how much you want me. That’s very cute and… needy.”

“Like you’re not fucking hard and aching already!” Wesley scoffed.

“I am, but I think I can endure it for a little longer. Here’s the deal: if I can make you come with my tongue, you’ll let me top, how’s that?”

He sealed his sentence with a long sweep from Wesley’s navel to his hipbone. His teeth scraped lightly at skin and his tongue dug into the waistband of Wesley’s jeans, which, to Wesley’s frustration, were still tortuously on.

“Fuck…”

“So that’s a yes?” he said, hands tugging the belt, ready to get it off at Wesley’s nod. Instantly Wesley’s gun-calloused hands were on his, urging him to rip off the belt. Caz grinned, a wide grin that could give a galeophobic an attack. “That’s definitely a yes.”

He had a hunch this wasn’t going to be a difficult triumph.

“No, no, you’re not going to help me win, are you?” Caz asked, deftly catching Wesley’s wrists. “Good, keep your hands to yourself and leave the rest to me.”

Wesley gritted his teeth but retrieved his hands nonetheless. Despite his tumultuous mind, he at least retained enough rationality to deduce that his loss was inevitable. It was creepy to think that although Wesley could easily dominate him with his superior strength and agility, it was Caz who could play him like a fiddle (even more so when they were both naked and in bed). But even so, it wasn’t in his nature to allow Caz an effortless victory.

An unspoken battle every time, violent in its own way.

Caz was already set for the game as he unbuckled the belt and eased down both Wesley’s jeans and boxers with deliberately slowness, making  _damn_  sure his partner feel the liberation  _inch_ by _inch_. When he was finally freed, so relieved was he that Wesley couldn’t help a long sigh, entirely missing Caz’s devious smirk upon witness his hard member in full display, hard, leaking and oh-so-needy. Holding it in his hand, he kissed the head first, a chaste touch as if claiming a virgin’s lips for the first time, before taking it into his mouth without further warning.

Wesley’s respiration halted for a good ten seconds as he felt himself sunk in the hot cavern of Caz’s mouth, a sensation so strong and overwhelming that his system stopped functioning altogether. He had felt death the second time, he reckoned upon coming around, and yet he didn’t mind trying the third.

With the same burning languid pace when he’d done his jeans, Caz took Wesley inch by inch. He’d made it his goal that Wesley could feel his lips stretching around his girth, his mouth closing around his shaft, as though Wesley was actually  _penetrating_  him, until he had all of Wesley. Then he slid out; his tongue drew a straight line vertically up the length until it reached the slit at the tip, and dipped in, eliciting sharp intakes of breath from Wesley. He applied a small amount of teeth too, grazing lightly along the elegant glands barely visible under skin – pale while the rest of him sported a golden tan. He was careful enough to keep his unusually sharp teeth in check so that Wesley would only experience a faint tingle instead of actual pain, because pain, he was well aware, extinguished pleasure faster than any other factors, especially when the part concerned was _down_  there.

Wesley’s uneven breaths turned loud broken pants, bouncing between the tight space of their room.

Caz was utilizing the same technique he had performed on Wesley’s nipples, with only a small alteration. He also went for slow this time, but instead of a man savoring a rare delicacy, he was one struck with famine, who was having a scarce meal that could well be his last. So he made sure that every bite was worth a life time.

Wesley was not grateful with Caz’s ‘special treatment’. Due to his assassin lifestyle, he was accustomed to things going fast, not slow. He appreciated it even less when his entire body was akin to a volcano which could erupt anytime. He deliberately bucked his hip into Caz’s mouth and felt a jolt of electricity running along his spine as he hit the back of Caz’s throat. The latter managed not to gag, further proving how  _adept_  he was in this field compared to Wesley. He told himself he wasn’t jealous with Caz’s ex-mates, which was a lie because, well, he was. It was every bit unfair that Wesley had been stuck in his awful, frustrating sex life while they had been able to… benefit from such first-class skills.

He made a mental note NOT to share Caz with anyone. Ever!

Raking his blunt, blood-caked fingernails on Caz’s scalp, Wesley gritted his teeth, “Fuck it, Colin, faster!” He heard a low throaty sound from his partner and was unsure whether such sound indicated an agreement or rejection – shouldn’t talk with his mouth _full_ , apparently. Nevertheless, his tongue’s movement answered what his mouth couldn’t.

His eyes went blind with the peak of orgasm and he spilled into Caz’s mouth, unashamed of his lack of courtesy to at least issue a warning; he knew from experience that Caz wouldn’t let him go without taking everything he could give.

He swallowed until he practically drain Wesley’s cock, his Adam’s apple’s movement indicating he didn’t let anything go waste, before he allowed it to slip from his lips. A stray pearly drop lingered at the corner of his mouth, which was swept clean with the pad of his thumb. He brought his finger to his lips, and licked it like he still wanted more despite what he had already received. Wesley would get hard again just by gazing at that scene, provided that he wasn’t too spent and wrapped in the delicious exhaustion of post-orgasm.

He locked his arms around Caz’s neck and brought his head down. He tasted himself on the latter’s tongue, a not-so-pleasant mixture of saltiness and bitterness both thick and faint in their mingled saliva. It was gross and it was weird and it was the perfect taste of lovemaking.

Since when casual fucking had evolved to lovemaking, neither of them raised a question.

“Cheater,” Wesley wheezed. His cheeks was flushed and his eyes, though heavy-lidded, possessed the brilliance rivaled one when he was in full clothes and keen on killing instead of naked, filthy and thoroughly debauched.

“How so?” Caz asked, still hovering above him.

“You said tongue, but used mouth, lips and teeth. That’s cheating.”

Caz chuckled. “Do tell me how to separate them then.”

“There’re ways…”

“Don’t want to know or try,” laughed Caz as he bent down to nibble at the tip of Wesley’s nose. Wesley shoved him aside so that he could turn his back to Caz. Gripping the bed post, he arched his back – a silent offer if Caz had half his wit to catch the hint. He waited and waited, but still the onslaught he’d expected, judging from how hard and aching Caz was, did not arrive.

“The fuck, Colin,” Wesley growled, half-impatient, half-irritated. He hated waiting and this was like trying to stay calm in spite of the burning in his throat so that he wouldn’t kick the hell out of the vending machine because it refused to spit out his drink after inserting the coin. “You fucking want to get blue balls?”

“What happened to your back?” came a surprised answer.

It took Wesley a few good seconds to understand Caz’s reference. “A scratch, no prob.”

Waiting for a few more seconds and still nothing happened, Wesley almost shouted, “Fucking start, Colin, or I swear I’ll rape you.”

“A grievous lack of patience but amusing nonetheless.” Though he didn’t see Caz, Wesley could tell the other man had to be putting on his usual smirk. He would punch him again if not for a wet, tinkling sensation applied to the wound on his back which made his whole body shudder and goosebumps raise under his skin. It started at the top of his right shoulder, crawling languidly down and halted at his shoulder blade, where the cut was nastiest. Moist breath blew over the damaged flesh, accompanied by feather-light caresses – no trace of the roughness and teases was found as Caz painted only the gentlest strokes on Wesley’s skin with his tongue.

It stung, naturally, but apart from the small discomfort. There was a spark of pleasure, rekindling the fire that had partly subsided with his first climax. Heat built up fast and he felt as if he could orgasm the second time with only Caz’s tongue touching him. Caz, he hated to admit, really had one hell of a tongue.

“The fuck you’re doing?”

“First-aid,” Caz replied with nonchalance. “You see how those little pussies lick themselves to treat their scratches.”

“Much time watching them?”

“Yup,” he agreed, “more fascinating than the other kind of ‘pussies’, I suppose.”

Wesley couldn’t help a laugh. Without warning, he twisted his body and grabbed Caz by his shoulder, pinning him down. The battered mattress sunk with their weights as Wesley straddled him.

Their position was an exact replication of one twenty hours ago.

Caz stared at Wesley and tried little to hide his confusion. Wesley tsked, finding this ‘deer-caught-in-headlight’ expression of Caz more annoying than his usual smirk. At the same time he was utterly amused; how someone could be sex-savvy in one minute and totally muddle-headed in the next was beyond his comprehension.

Caz let out a gasp when slick fingers closed around his hard member, sliding up and down with smooth ease. The touch was cool – thanks the lubricant for extra-effect – and coolness fueled the fire within.

“A hand, Colin,” Wesley commanded, tossing him the tube of lubricant. He shifted and sat on his heels to lend Caz an easier access to his entrance.

Caz wasted no time in coating his hand with gracious amount of lube before jabbing one long, lean finger into Wesley. There was difficulty at first – as expected because Wesley hadn’t had it for while, not since the last time he’d allowed Caz to probe into his most vulnerable part. Wesley inhaled a puff of dry air at the invasion of extracorporeal body, squeezing his eyes shut.

One hand massaging the small of Wesley’s back, Caz brought the other to Wesley’s chest, littering bold touches over sweat-slick skin as he tried his best to distract the latter from the unavoidable pain. “Relax,” he cooed, no hint of teases, only warm concern carefully wrapped in Cockney-accented voice. “Though your tightness says how much you miss me, I don’t really fancy the crease of pain between your eyebrows…”

A moment of hesitation before he continued, “we can switch if you…”

“Shut up and fucking prepare me!” Wesley cut him short.

“Yessir,” Caz blurted out, more sincere than amused, and started putting good use to his long finger, stretching the tight muscle with moves he’d acquired from years of practical experience. It wasn’t long before he could add in the second, and the third.

The good thing was, Caz mused with delight, that Wesley loosened up easily, which was a blessing for him. Despite keeping a straight face while preparing Wesley with diligence and adequacy, Caz didn’t hold much confidence in how much longer he could last.

The threat of getting blue balls wasn’t intangible.

And Wesley, ever so sympathetic, lifted himself up as soon as Caz’s fingers left him. Taking Caz in his hand, he gingerly guided him to his entrance and let him in, inch by inch of his impressive shaft swallowed until Wesley could resume his straddling position.

Both moaned lengthily in unison.

Without another word, Wesley took Caz’s hands, placed them on his hip and began to move, prompting Caz to follow suit, their movement in perfect tandem.

The air confined in the small, spartan-furnished room was thick with broken pants and spiced with heavy sweats.

Wesley felt like he was being cooked in his own skin – the tension kept building up within the volcano and its eruption was only a tantalizing step away. He placed his hands on Caz’s hip, not realizing he was gripping onto the exact same place he had left two tell-tale bruises, to coax him into speeding his thrusts as he urged his own hip to move in the same rhythm. Caz wordlessly obliged him.

Their shared climax came like an angry tidal wave washing over them, trying to drown them to the bottom of their ecstasy. They held onto each other through it, tightly, painfully and never minding they would hurt each other with their mutual brutal force.

They went through pain as they went through pleasure, together, now, always.

Such was the thought swimming around Wesley’s head when he collapsed on top of Caz.

…

For fuck’s sake (now that quite was), Wesley was stinking.

A hideously obnoxious mixture of sweats, dirt, cordite, blood and liberal amount of come, from both inside and out, was clinging to his body like the second layer of skin. Yet somehow he found it much more bearable than before. The fact that Caz, lying beside him and emitting a similar smell, though less with blood and cordite and more with come, could help explain.

“How are you feeling?” Caz asked in soft voice, almost like a breeze. His fingers gently brushed away a few damp locks on Wesley’s forehead.

“Sore,” Wesley said.

Came a chuckle. “Walking funny tomorrow?”

Wesley gave him a glare and sat up, wincing as the movement did naughtily to his sore muscles under. He found his jeans lying not so far from the bed – fortunately – and dragged it to him with his sole. He fumbled through his pocket and found a crumpled packet of cigarette. He tossed it Caz, who deftly caught it.

Grinning, Caz took one and reached for the lighter on the nightstand. “My favorite,” he sighed happily – a child who just got a lollipop – now with a cigarette tucked between his lips instead of the sweat treat.

He returned the packet to Wesley, and didn’t seem too surprised when the latter also took one. Caz was quick to light it for him.

A new kind of smell was introduced to the mixture as both exhaled a puff of smoke, almost simultaneously.

Wesley glanced at Caz, who was closing his eyes to enjoy the taste of nicotine pervading his sense, and a thought crossed his mind.

“You know…” Caz turned to look at him, “you probably should have done it more slowly, more gently…”

“What do you mean?”

“… so that you wouldn’t get too sore. And walking funny.”

“Speaking from experience huh?” Wesley asked, sardonically.

“For your own good,” Caz replied, giving Wesley a dirty look. Hollowing his cheeks, he blew out a small, perfect ring of smoke, which dispersed as soon as Wesley tried to poke its center with his forefinger.

“Colin?”

“Huh?”

“For a moment I thought I would come back to an empty room,” Wesley said, propping himself up on his elbow to look into Caz’s cerulean eyes.

“Why?” Caz’s surprise was genuine.

“There’s no fucking reason you can’t go if you fucking want to.”

The words were almost spitted out in bitterness. Caz’s eyebrows arched up, but he soon resumed his casual half-smile, half-smirk.

“And there’s only one reason I’ll go nowhere.”

“What is it?”

“I love you,” replied Caz with blatantly straight face that left every space to doubt his sincerity.

Wesley looked stunned for a brief moment before bursting into laughter. “You love the smell of kill on me,” he said between laughs, “fucking turns you on like no other. Now that I remember you said the same thing at the bar.”

Caz gave him an amorous look when he brought his face close to Wesley. Placing a chaste kiss on the freckles dotting the tip of Wesley’s nose, he whispered into his ears, “My  _sole_  mate.”

“That’s still more preferable than…” Wesley lied back, pillowing his head with one arm as his gaze shifted to the moldy ceiling, the dusty tube, nowhere but Caz’s face as he spoke in low voice, “… than to find your naked, dead ass on the bed.”

Caz laughed aloud.

“I sometimes imagine my death, you know,” he said through laughter, “and it always involves nudity.”

“Exhibitionism much?”

“How about this, nothing but a fur coat to cover my naked self?” he asked, reaching up to stub his half-burnt cigarette on the spoiled leftover of his breakfast on the nightstand. “Nan’s got a very fine one. I imagine before we leave here, we can stop by and grab it…”

“For what?” Wesley scoffed.

“… so that I can parade around in nothing but it…” Caz looked at him, eyes twinkling with mischief. “… and give you a constant  _Marquis de Sade_.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“American equivalence is boner.”

Wesley elbowed him.

Still laughing, Caz rolled on top of Wesley, graceful limbs tangling around the smaller body like a giant octopus. He muffed his laughter into the juncture of Wesley’s neck and shoulder.

“I wasn’t always like this, you know…” Wesley spoke, after Caz’s frenzy fit of laughter had quieted down.

“Don’t tell me you had plastic surgery?!” Caz shot up, a look of shock and disbelief painted on his face.

The corner of Wesley’s mouth twitched and he gave the other man a kick, sending him off the bed in an undignified heap.

“I was an accountant!”

“The type of boring desk job, complete with a silly cap?” Crawling up, Caz asked incredulously.

“Not a cap, a green eyeshade,” Wesley corrected. “And minus that, plus an asshole boss, sack-of-shit best friend and cheating girlfriend who cheats with said best friend.” he punctuated with a huff; the mention of Barry and Cathy always left a bad taste in his mouth. Finding his cigarette no longer tasteful, he passed it to Caz, who snubbed it on his breakfast leftover.

“Quite a dramatic change of career, wasn’t it?”

Wesley nodded curtly. “An organization of assassins took me in, trained me to be one of them simply because they wanted my old man dead and mine was the only head he wouldn’t drill a bullet in.”

Caz’s lips were forming a silent “Wow!”

“… And I ended up successfully killing my old man and the entire organization – at least they trained me well. Now I’m on my own.”

Caz rolled over to Wesley’s side. Bracing himself with his elbow, he looked Wesley in the eyes.

“Why suddenly tell me all of these? Not that I don’t appreciate it but…”

“Because I want to put you in an intense training as soon as we’re on American land,” Wesley explained.

“Training to be…”

“… like me. You don’t expect me to work my ass off to feed you, do you?”

“I thought you needed a housewife.” Caz faked a pout, but couldn’t keep it for long. “Of course not. I intended to get back to my old trade.”

“And find another ass to kiss?” Wesley grunted, heat palpable in his tone. Caz just grinned.

“The only ass I’ll be kissing from now on is yours. Satisfied?”

And to prove his point, he grabbed Wesley’s bottom, placing butterfly kisses on the skin. Wesley shivered with a jolt of electricity running along his spine.

“But a shift in career doesn’t sound half-bad. Moreover, you trust me enough to cover your back…”

His fingers gentry traced the cut on Wesley’s back, brows creasing as he mumbled, almost to himself, “Nasty, isn’t it?”

“I’ve worse,” Wesley scoffed, turning his head to hide the tips of his ears which had turned pink. “This is the least you’ll get from training.”

“Oh, trembling already,” Caz replied flatly, and placed his hand on Wesley’s firm abdomen, drawing little circles with his idle fingertips. Wesley brushed his hand away and sat up; the lukewarm feeling seeping from his entrance caused him to grimace. He didn’t doubt it was not a sight to behold down there: used, swollen and leaking with come.

He was only two steps from the bed when arms intertwined around his waist and a lithe body pressed against his back.

“At least let me have the courtesy to prepare a bath for you.”

Caz’s breath tickled Wesley’s ear as he nibbled at his earlobe, suggesting that he implied more than just a bath.

Wesley elbowed him, hard, earning a soft whimper from behind. Other than that, he made no further protest while walking them both to the bathroom.

_End_

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Direct sequel to my previous fic Beyond Flesh & Skin.
> 
> *Caz actually wears his Nan’s fur coat in the series. For those of you who wonder how it looks, check out this screenshot: http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/boxedturtle/9185440/21532/21532_original.png
> 
> *That blood and violence turn Caz on is canonical (Murphy's Law ep.5).
> 
> *Last but not least, it’s a late birthday gift for a friend of mine, who ships Cazley as much as I do. Thank you for reading and commenting on my stories ^^.


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